


Triumph and Glory

by telemachus



Series: Waves of Glory [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Balkan Wars (1912/3), Heroic Glorfindel, Longing, M/M, Motorbikes, Regret, War Stories, reminiscences, semi-modern au, showing off to impress younger potential boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel is the elf who has been everywhere, met everyone, done everything - has stories about it all. Lived the adventures.</p>
<p>Here is one of them, one that he tells to Legolas, and Thranduil, during an evening at Elrond's house-party.</p>
<p>[Set during (I want to Sleep with) Common People Like You - but could be read before that, if you like.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triumph and Glory

**Author's Note:**

> I do have an overall plan for this series, but I don't seem to be writing them chronologically. And the characters are dipping in and out of memory anyway. So - *shrugs* - I'm sure anyone who is interested is intelligent enough to cope.
> 
>  
> 
> .

Greece? Of course I know Greece – sailed among the islands in my time, swam in those seas, walked the hills and watched the sun rise between the columns of a temple. Is that the sort of Greece you know, beautiful? Or – saving your presence, Thranduil – are you one for the party islands, for Mykonos, for wine and laughter and music and – making friends, pretty Legolas?

Unfair to Thranduil – he doesn't want to hear us swap those kind of stories.

Sorry.

But, yes, I know Greece. The islands for pleasure, the south for – well, for feeling young, compared to that history I feel young, and for remembering honour and courage. The north – yes, I know the north.

It is a long time since I was there, beautiful.

Did I never tell you, Thranduil, in all my war-stories, did I never tell you of my sojourn in the Balkans?

No?

Ah. Well.

I was sent down to – what would you call it, I wonder – babysit, I suppose – some civil servant type, observing that war – this would be, oh, 1912, 1913. Long before you were thought of, beautiful, not even a twinkle in your Ada’s eye. About the time you were having fun though, Thranduil, defying your Adar.

Less said about that the better, I daresay.

So.

Shipped out from Plymouth we were, this serious advisor and I. And my beloved Triumph – I won’t bore you with the details, but it was a lovely bike.

Weeks on the boat.

And then – northern Greece.

Beautiful. You’d love it, with all your forests – pines enough even for Silvans. There’s some of them up there, you know, very out of the way. You think you’re miles from anywhere, from civilisation, from anyone, completely private – but then you realise that bird call – is no bird. And somewhere, just out of sight, there’s one of them watching you, and telling all his bloody friends what you’re up to and where you are.

Weird types, Silvans. I daresay yours are the same. 

Would still paint themselves, if they thought they could get away with it, keep to all the old customs.

Anyway.

They weren’t involved in this one. At least, they weren’t supposed to be, weren’t acknowledged participants. Mind, they often aren’t – half the trouble in the world, no that's not fair, but some of it, comes from treaties made without the local Silvans’ agreement, so a clan finds itself stranded cross-border. Not that they tend to fight, not precisely, just – they make life difficult.

Tricksy types.

Anyway.

We weren’t there to look at them. 

We were there to observe the rest of the war. And it was a mess. Believe me, beautiful, I’ve seen some wars in my time, and that one – it took the biscuit. Well. At the time it did. To begin, Bulgaria, Serbia, Montenegro and Greece itself had got themselves out from the Ottomans – well done them, you might say – but had left numbers of their people – not forgetting their Silvans, sweetheart – behind, as it were. Which might have been all very well, had the Ottomans offered those types some little sweetener – abolishing taxes on wine usually works, as I recall – or had the rest of Europe encouraged them to. Or, I suppose, had the old empire been a bit tougher and nastier, so that those left behind knuckled under.

No, that doesn't sound nice, but, beautiful, politics isn’t nice, real life isn’t nice. Sorry. Don’t wrinkle that pretty little nose at me, you know I’m right, and so does your Ada. I daresay we’ve both done a few things in our time.

Anyway.

So those four states – the Balkan league, they called themselves – they upped and attacked. They’d seen Italy defeat the empire, they had the Russians’ promises of help, so – well. Wars happen.

Honestly, I don’t remember all the details, I might be getting it wrong. What I do remember, is the heat, the scent of pines, the road winding through mountains. The endless sound of cicadas when we would stop and sit, letting the engine cool.

I remember the sky, so blue, so high above.

The emptiness.

Seeing from far off the men – or whatever – marching away, and knowing most of them wouldn’t come back. 

The sharpness of the mountains, the bleak flatness of the plains.

What were we there for?

Oh, beautiful, you really have no idea. What school did you send this one to, Thranduil? His modern history is pretty lacking.

Really? The Coll is going downhill. Damn sure you were worked harder, taught better, and I know I was.

Anyway.

We were there, because the British Empire, as we still were then, liked to know what was happening. And to control, or at least – what is the word – nudge – events in our favour.

How?

Oh beautiful, have you never watched war films? How does anyone ensure things go the way they want?

You’d be surprised, I think, just how much damage one can do, from the sidelines. The old tricks are the best. Shots fired at night – and scents in the air that suggested Ottoman cooking. Bodies – either ones we shot or found – marked to suggest the other allies killed them.

Keeping everyone – unsettled.

And don’t wrinkle that pretty nose. It worked, it was the right thing – ends justified the means in those days.

Even now, methods like that save more lives than they cost, in the long run.

And there was a bridge.

I don’t remember what bridge, or where. Bloody hell, Thranduil, just listen to the damn story. I don’t have an atlas – and don’t you dare ask Elrond for one – I’ll look it up for you tomorrow. 

Elbereth, I’d forgotten what a picky elf you are. Poor beautiful, no wonder you’re such a shy and blushing creature.

There was a bridge.

Train bridge, over a gorge, river at the bottom, you know the sort of thing. 

Now, I forget precisely how we knew, but we knew, there was a – not official, no, that's too kind – warlord might be closer to it – general in name, but – well. It’s a tough area, and a tough time. Anyway.

He was to be on a certain train. An army train, soldiers, weapons, him. And he – he was the reason the fighting was going on so – the Ottomans knew they couldn’t win, that was painfully clear by now – but this chap – do you know, I forget his name – not that it would mean anything to you, beautiful, but I daresay your pernickety Ada would like it – he was the one who wouldn’t agree to a ceasefire, to negotiate.

Well, Kit– the chappie I was with – was confident – and I’d learnt to trust him on this sort of thing, if not on much else – that if only this one awkward bugger was out of the way, things would progress.

So.

A sniper might have done it, if we’d had a sniper. Not my weapon, and in those days you needed skill – real skill – the accuracy we have now just wasn’t available. But, since we knew the train, and the bridge was there – left to myself, I think I’d probably have taken out the supports, let it collapse.

But oh no, what if he could swim?

As though anyone could swim after a fall like that, from a train carriage, immersed in water. Damn cold fast flowing water at that.

But no, he was an elf, you never know. Red-haired Noldor type, hence the not-giving-in. Hard to kill, those buggers.

So. 

We – obtained – some dyamite. 

Doesn't matter precisely how.

There’s a lot of metalwork done in that part of the world. Gold mines. Copper too, of course, but gold mostly. That's why I never went back, partly. Couldn’t bear to see the mess they’ve made of it.

Anyway. 

It wasn’t too difficult to get some of the dynamite Naugrim use for blasting.

And fuses, so on.

But only the bare minimum we needed – tight as a duck’s arse, Naugrim, no room to manoeuvre in bargaining. And we didn’t have unlimited funds.

Fact, I remember giving up a hairclip – lovely jewelled piece. Little buggers probably melted it down, and that had come a long way with me, but – well. Meant a lot at the time.

Anyway.

Of course, nothing ever goes to plan in that part of the world. 

Bloody rainstorm.

Had to re-jig the bloody fuses at the last minute.

So picture it – thunder and lightning still overhead, the rain moved off – for now, but no guarantee it won’t return – dark, less time than one wants for such a thing – me crawling about, replacing all the sodden string with something that will still burn, something that will go up nicely – oh come on, beautiful, what do you bloody think elves use, hair, thin bloody braids of hair – and all the time, straining our ears for the first sound of the train.

Almost done, start to relax.

Hear it – and yes, it’s the right train, has to be done. So we light the damn fuse – second and last fuse remember – and it goes out.

Blown out in the wind.

Shit, we think – oh don’t wince, Thranduil, he’s no child, he knows the word.

Quickly trying to make another, to redo it all again.

Realise we can’t, no time, the train is here.

Lighting torches – old style flaming bloody branches – climbing out to the far side of the gorge with one – lighting the furthest stick.

Climbing back, across the struts of the damn bridge, lighting them as I go.

Praying to all the Valar that they won’t go out – praying to all the Valar that they won’t bloody go up before I’m off the damn thing.

Lighting the last, and turning to make the last leap to land.

Seeing in his face that I’ve been too long.

Hearing the whoomph of the furthest one going up.

Feeling the whole damn bridge start moving under me.

Knowing the train is committed, is on it, hasn’t a chance in hell.

Knowing I haven’t either.

Jumping anyway.

Falling free of the bridge struts, knowing I can’t make it to the cliff, to the reaching hand.   
Reaching.

Not able to.

 

 

Good thing the fuse had gone so early, in a way.

Meant my hair was loose, unbound.

Gave him something to grab.

Swinging to the side of the cliff. Climbing up – anchored by his grip on my hair.

Fuck – sorry Thranduil – but it hurt.

Still.

All those years of carefully braiding it away for battle – and then saved because that day I hadn’t.

Irony.

Never braided it up for battle since.

Anyway.

Bridge was down, train gone. Awkward sod dead.

Result.

So once the fighting was officially over – that's officially over, beautiful, doesn't mean it ended, just that it was all now deniable – the final treaty was negotiated in London, signed in London.

I suppose the chappie I was with – civil service type, as I say – he would have had a lot to do with that. Drafting on the ground, agreements in principle. That type of thing.

Anyway.

He couldn’t have done too well, because the next war broke out – oh, a month or so later. This time, Bulgaria felt hard done by, so set up against its former allies – who of course took the obvious step of bringing in the previously reviled Ottomans to help. And Romania. Fuck knows what they were playing at. Grab what you can while the going’s good, I suspect. I don’t know, I’d given up following it all.

Remember Thessaloniki though. Miserable place then, half-starved, battered. I’m told it’s nice enough now, but I haven’t the heart to go back.

One place I do remember, though for the life of me I don’t know what we were doing there – there was fighting out at Ioannina – out beyond the Pindus mountains – back end of nowhere, to be honest. But those mountains were beautiful. Days it took, even on my lovely Triumph, to cross them. 

Roads being what they were in those days.

Bandits being what they were in those days. Remember one particular incident – nearly went not quite as planned. Cunning bastards, sometimes. Thought I’d seen them off, turned out one was only playing dead. Fortunately it turned out my advisor-type was handy enough with a pistol when he had to be.

Or I’d have had a genuine Greek dagger in my back.

Still. Those mountains. Beautiful.

And so high. You’d look down on eagles.

Ioannina, I don’t remember so well. Just another little place.

But – beyond there – Dodona.

I don’t know why we went. It can’t have had any strategic importance. It’s tiny now.

But once – once it was one of the biggest, most important oracles in the north of Greece. Legend says – don’t laugh, beautiful – even Alexander the Great went there. It doesn’t say what question he asked.

He might have, at that. His mother was from Epirus – that area. Argued with his father, they did, went storming off in the night. Very dramatic.

Blonds.

Don’t huff, beautiful, if I can’t say that, who can?

Anyway.

The theatre is there, the ruins of the temple, and fuck me – sorry, Thranduil – but there’s still an oak tree.

I don’t suppose it’s the same one. Not really. But.

When you’re there, and it’s deserted, except you and – well – anyway. It seems – not the centre of the world, that’s Delphi, for all the tourist guides, the beggars, the trippers with their cameras – but – Dodona feels like home, and the place the gods, the Valar, fate, can see you. 

And make their choice for you.

You lie under that tree, and look up into the sky, and you taste the bread and olives and wine on your tongue – as people have done for – oh, I suppose some three thousand years or more – and you find – none of the things you have worried over matter. Not really.

Only touch and taste, and the heat.

And if you have the right listener, you spill out your heart’s secrets.

I’ll take you there, beautiful, one of these days. Touch the tree for luck, listen to the doves cooing, drink the wine.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

 

&&&&&&&&&&

Engrossed as I am supposed to be in this discussion, I am Erestor – I can attend and respond to Arwen’s unkempt Man without missing a word of Glorfindel’s tale.

He stops, pulls this Sindar against him – in front of his father – has the boy no shame? And their conversation turns away and on.

I try not to listen, not to let my attention wander from those I am with, but it is difficult when all of me aches, and wants to cry out – how can you speak so, Goldilocks? How can you make a joke, a warstory of the bridge, of that climb – of those months?

How can you promise to take another there, there of all places in the world?

How did all that was golden melt away and leave us empty handed?

 

 

Fortunately, I have never had a reputation for conviviality.

As the evening breaks up, I manage to avoid seeing their doubtless affectionate goodnights, and make my way to my room, the same room Elrond always assigns me.

This time, as I have not felt the need for many years, one of his bottles of brandy accompanies me, and I stand, smoking my way through a packet of vile imported Greek cigarettes as I drink it, leaning out the window, trying to imagine the trees I can half-see are pines, the scent is resin, and that, above all, my bed is not cold and empty behind me.

Wishing that the tales of perfect elven memory were true. That my recall was as sharp and clear as though I live those days again.

Those days of which I prefer not to think, in the general way of things.

Those days which meant so much – and yet so little.

 

 

I too remember a hot lazy day at Dodona. 

I too forget why we were there, but I remember him indeed spilling out his heart’s secrets, or as close as he would ever come.

 

&&&&&&&&

 

“You ever loved someone?” he asks, and for a moment I do not know how to answer, stay silent, considering, so, as I should be used to by now, he plunges on, “Properly. Not – I don’t mean parents, suchlike, but – love. The way the tales say. The way elves are supposed to love. You ever cared for someone like that, Kitten?”

“Stop calling me Kitten,” I say, because what else can I answer? No, never until now, never even thought I could. 

Left my parents young, school, education came between us – I have little in common now with they or their other children, their friends and concerns. But still – I am not quite the right sort. I never will be, never will speak as you do, never will have the confidence you were bred with, never the absolute belief in myself. Oh, I believe in my abilities, my knowledge – but that isn’t quite the same thing. And so – for many years now – I have resigned myself to living for work alone.

People do.

Quite normal for dwarves.

Not unknown for hobbits.

Men, even with their short lives – plenty of them in my position, the world over. Taken from where you belong, educated beyond your class, and then – not content to settle for someone from that old life, not able to aspire to someone from the new. At least, as an elf, I have time on my side. 

Besides, it never until now seemed to me that I was missing much.

Never believed anyone could care for someone like that, until – until recently. 

Until the sun came out, the heat warmed me, and your laugh woke something in me that I never even knew was sleeping.

Until I slept beside you every night on this journey, and wondered how I would ever learn to lie alone again. 

Until I found that – needs must – I am become used to your presence, your touch, your speech, your laughter – and I dread the day this is over, and you move on, to charm another, to spread your net of camaraderie wider still.

Until I saw you take on those – bandits. Ten of them, each one with a knife, and I – useless in such a situation, able only to sit there, watching, while you – you moved fast, and skilled, and I cannot recount moves, but all of them were left unconscious, disarmed, bleeding, but not one killed by your hand.

Until my heart seemed to stop, and I knew not how to breathe at the thought of a knife in your back.

Until I found that in the last resort, even I, bookish and untrained as I am – even I can pick up a pistol, and aim it and fire, and feel no remorse when what was only a moment before a living breathing man is no more than a lifeless piece of meat. By my hand.

For your sake.

And my own, I suppose, but I had no thought of that. Only of you.

I don’t say it.

He laughs instead, as he always laughs, laughs at everything, life is so easy, so joyous to him, and he raises his glass, the villainous pine-resin wine in it swirling,

“To you, Kitten,” he says, “and to you remaining untouched by such hurt.”

I manage a smile, tight, restrained, as he no doubt thinks all my smiles are tight and restrained.

He drinks, pours, and then, 

“To all the elves we didn’t love – didn’t have time to love – to all the elves who aren’t here to see the glorious twentieth century.”

He downs that glass as well, and I see his hand shake, just slightly, as he replaces the glass.

I sigh.

“Come on then, Goldilocks,” I say, and enjoy the growl, “there’s a story you want to tell me, isn’t there?”

He shrugs,

“Want? No. Need to – yes. Where to start though?”

He pauses, and then begins,

 

 

“His name was Ecthelion. I suppose it still is, somewhere in the Halls of Mandos, or wherever he is now, but – anyway. I always knew him – back from School, first day, he was there. Just a little older than me, just a little more organised, knew his way around. I don’t remember now why he took me under his wing – I daresay I needed it. First time away from home, away from my parents, and of course, to all the boys who would grow to be Men – the long golden hair didn’t make life easier. 

I wasn’t much of a fighter in those days.

Had never needed to be.

No brothers, only the one sister, and she’s much older. So – suddenly – to be plunged into that world – it was a shock.

Anyway.

After that, went up to ‘Varsity together. Joined the same regiment on the same day.

He was always the good one, the sensible one, the clever one.

School, ‘Varsity, and then on, it was always him to think up mad schemes, just joking, me that was foolish enough to carry them out. Me that got into trouble, lines, detention, sent down, lost my commission a few times – could tell you stories about that, come to think – anyway.

Mind, I found trouble by myself often enough – drinking, gambling, you know.

But, often enough we were in things together.

The Peninsula War – well, not quite together, that one. One of those times I’d – had a little run-in with our superiors. Some Men have no sense of humour.

Various of Wellington’s campaigns. I could tell you – for hours – oh I will, soon enough. One thing about old soldiers,” he laughs, “you’ll find, Kitten, we love to revisit all the days we didn’t die.

And Ecthelion was always there, beside me, always at my shoulder.

And then.

Crimea.”

I blanch.  
I can almost see the end of this story already.

“Yes, Kitten, Crimea. Don’t look so bloody worried, it wasn’t your fault. Not even your damn department.

Balls-up start to finish.

Valar, I miss him.

Anyway.

I’m trying to tell you.

We were so close.

Always.

I knew his family as well as I knew him – and he mine – hard-core mine are. Serious, Vanyar, if the Valar had meant us to live as Men do, they would not have blessed us with pointed ears and perfect pitch, types. You maybe have met the sort.

They sold up, century or so back, went out West.

Sailed.

I daresay we’ll catch up again, one of these days.

His family though – ah, they were lovely. Close, affectionate, doting you might say – except – with so very many children – his parents were always a bit – absent-minded when it came to their younger ones. They never seemed to know how old he was, whether his stories were likely, whether his exploits were genuine, or laced with fiction. Nor did they care, not really. Don’t set fire to things, don’t hurt anyone, and if you steal – oh, only scrumping apples, catching rabbits, suchlike mischief – make a note of the owner so we can make amends. 

Fairly simple code, really.

I think, when I first went to his home – I hoped his parents would adopt me. That sounds harsh, and I don’t mean – I just would have been glad to go there every holiday.

Then, as we grew older, it seemed to me there was a way that could be. 

He had a sister – well, he had a bundle of sisters, but one in particular – she was – I don’t know – close to us in age – always wanted to be doing whatever we were doing – and one time, I don’t know where Ecthelion had gone – she made me agree I’d marry her, when we were old enough.

Not that it took a lot to persuade me. She was nice, she was Ecthelion’s sister. Why would I not want to?

And even now – I daresay marriages have been made for worse reasons.

Only – when he found out – he laughed.

“Don’t be silly, Glorfindel,” he almost howled, “you can’t marry her – she’s part Teleri, same as me – your parents would have forty fits.”

I suppose he was right.

But still.

There’s times I wish I’d had the guts to stick to the plan. Marry Anna.

I’d have a whole tribe of little elflings by now.”

He looks into the distance for a moment, wistful, and I wonder where this is going. All this lead up, talk of love, for a not-quite-arranged marriage that didn’t happen?  
Then he shakes himself.

“Of course, he was right. 

More right than he knew.

I could never have made a go of it with Anna.”

He laughs.

“Matter of fact, Anna married some bloody Silvan she met out hunting.

No.

At a Hunt Ball.

Bloody Silvans.

All so fucking wild and free and oh look at us dance, we understand about dancing, look at us hunt, we understand the ways of nature, the way elves are supposed to be.

Bastard bloody Silvans.

Last I heard they were down somewhere in deepest fucking Wales, four elflings already, more to come no doubt.

It isn’t that I loved her.

Probably sounds like it, but no. I didn’t, and I knew it then.

Just – the way he laughed.

As though she was too good for me, as though I was ridiculous even to think of it.

I – I was only – fuck, I don’t know, young. Young enough not to know better.

You know how it is.

Maybe you don’t.

But – you read the classics.

You read about all the great heroes, their great friendships.

Achilles and Patroclus.

David and Jonathan.

Fingon and Maedhros.

You don’t – well, when you’re young you don’t – you don’t understand why the way you feel is different.”

 

Oh.

Is he – is he trying to – tell me something?

I don’t know.

I don’t know what to think, what to do.

Because yes, even at my – less illustrious – school, I read the classics, I know those names, the way the bond between such heroes was revered.

And I – I can remember painful moments of understanding, of self-discovery, of learning the difference between what was good, and to be admired, and the – the hopeless longing that I felt. The sickness inside on realising that what in myth was the highest of all gifts, the vows that held unto death and beyond – was in reality the stuff of sniggering, of jokes, of the kind of adult we were warned against in words so veiled it took me years to understand.

That no admired prefect, no worshipped Head of Games, no long-adored contemporary, would ever see anything in me to – to favour – would never turn to me and offer – offer things I had not words to desire, only images, and images I knew to be – wrong – at that.

Yet now – now I am sat here, here in a place where the gods, the Valar have been petitioned for so long, and – and the most – wonderful – beautiful – daring – clever – perfect – elf I have ever met – is almost – but not quite – telling me there were days he felt the same. 

As though my own half-formed prayers are answered.

But I can’t quite believe in it.

So I keep my head down, my face averted, and wait for him to say more.

Long for him to reach out, to show that he does – does mean – what I think he might.

And I know – I care not that someone so – glorious – could not love me. Even if he wants me only for the duration of this mission – be honest, Erestor – even if he wants me only for the duration of this night – of this hour – of this fleeting need to scratch an itch – I care not.

It would be more than I ever dared to dream could truly be within my reach.

But I have not the courage to even raise my eyes.

And so he sighs, and finishes his wine, and turns away.

“Enough.

We had best get some rest tonight.

None of it matters now.”

 

 

 

It is days before he returns to the subject.

Days of waiting, of moving around the area, of seeking out partisans, of talking, of negotiating – for me. Days of talking, of building friendships, of building trust for him. 

We make a good team, complementing each other perfectly.

But he speaks no more of home, of love, of anything personal.

I have begun to think it was merely the wine talking, it meant nothing.

Idly, one long lazy afternoon, waiting for another day to pass, another day before we move off, leave this place, this Dodona where we have been so long, where the gods, were they to exist, must surely hear my longing, must be kind, I ask, 

“Have you been to this part of the world before?”

Because I have not, and I – I am still bewildered by the heat, the light, the landscape.

Bewildered and enchanted.

There are days when we stop at midday, or thereabouts, take shelter from the height of the sun, and sit and drowse in the pine-woods, hearing the cicadas in their continual song, when the sky is bluer than I knew sky could be, when the kites call overhead, the mountains echo, and – and part of me expects to see some god, some hero, some Maia, some Vala come walking down out of the old tales.

I find I am reluctant to move on, reluctant to hurry, to speed this time away.

I find I – I love the sunshine.

I feel – warm.

And so I ask, wondering if he has any idea how I feel, how – how I long to feel the sun on my skin, all of my skin, how I – I have looked at the sea, so blue, so clear, and imagined how good it would feel. How cold, how crisp.

How when he smiles, or moves, or – or breathes – I long to reach and touch, to feel the warmth of him, heavy against me, burning me as the sun burns, how I imagine – and I should not – but I do – imagine the way his skin would taste; I watch him peel an orange, and imagine licking the juice from his hands. 

I watch him light a cigarette, and in these weeks I have learnt to take it when he passes it, to place it still warm from his lips on mine, to taste not only the smoke, but perhaps a faint lingering something that is him, inhale, and breathe it out, let it go and watch it find a way up to the blue of the sky, the blueness where perhaps the gods are, if ever they were real. When I have not eaten, I can imagine my longings carried with it, I can imagine it a burnt offering to them, to Cupid, to Aphrodite, to any that might aid me.

Though how any god could aid me when I know not clearly what I would have – I cannot see.

I dare not imagine what it is I wish for, what it is I will never have. 

Surely it is better not.

I watch his hands, and I wonder what they would feel like, how they would touch, if he leant down to me, and touched my skin. Almost I can imagine it.

Almost, but not quite. Isolated from touch by respectability, by class, by gender, as I have been, so many years.

I cannot even imagine, so very inexperienced am I, what it would be to – to kiss his mouth, to feel his breath upon me.

But I know I would give – almost anything – to find out.

Now – now I have asked a question, disturbed his rest – spoilt the peace I was enjoying, the quiet moment when, unobserved, I could allow my eyes to drink their fill – and he rolls lazily, easily towards me, and smiles, and begins to answer.

“Passed through a couple of times, but – only on duty. That was when I was more – regularly employed,” he grins, and adds, “didn’t have such pleasant company either.”

I flush, and wish I could pretend it was merely the heat.

He must see, but he rolls away, and then,

“Kitten,” and I am too confused to protest, “I was trying to tell you – before – it wasn’t when I was here – but – well, some of the time would have been – and then the Crimea – it isn’t as far off as you might think – I – I considered myself in love then.”

He stops, and I can see his back moving with his breath, can see him wondering how to speak of any of it, and I find – I do not want to hear. 

I do not want to hear of some adored love, some perfection I could never hope to match.

I do not want to hear of a battle, a death, pain.

Instead – I reach out – thinking perhaps, perhaps I can be brave, I can touch, I can – start something.

My hand hovers over his back, and then I realise he is – not simply breathing – those are sobs. He weeps.

And I – I can only be glad we are elves, that he can release this pain, not Men who must forever hide these things, and show themselves strong and cold as iron.

Gently, so gently, gently as – as I cannot remember ever touching another – I let my hand rest on his shoulder, and find words,

“You don’t have to speak of it. But – I will listen – if being here – brings it back, and –“

I don’t know what I would go on to say, because suddenly, suddenly he turns, and grasps my hand, and I – I am pulled over him, his hand holding me, his eyes – so blue, so very blue, blue as this sky, bluer than anything has the right to be – looking up into mine, and the pain, the tears in them – I find I would – would dare anything to make that go away.

I lean down, and – my mouth meets his – and – and somehow all the words I don’t have are said between us, all the longing, the need, the loneliness – and his hands on my shoulders, my hands touching his hair, his ears, he gasps and his hands are following my lead, and touching me also – and – and I do not want this to stop, I do not want to hear any words, any stories of past friends, I want only to – to keep on with this, this grinding need, this ache in me, this urgency.

Ah Valar but this – this is so good, this is better than – than anything – this, this taste of him, feel of him, need – and knowing he too wants, needs – and I do not care if it is just this once, if it means nothing – I am not some bloody stupid backwoods Silvan, to think elves can only take one lover – I want this, as I never wanted anything, anyone, as I never dreamt one could want, and – and he too – he is clutching at me and arching, pushing, thrusting against me, and I – I reach down, thinking to loosen clothing, to free ourselves, to be able to touch – oh dear Elbereth to touch – to feel the heat of him, the hardness – yes, oh please yes – and he – he makes the most wonderful sound I have ever heard. A sound of longing and want, and need, and desperation. And I – I am no fool – I may be inexperienced, but I am no fool – this will not last for long, and I must remember every moment, every expression on his face – I pull back a little, just enough to see him, to drink in his glorious, glorious beauty, his need, the half-closed eyes, the open mouth, the colour in his cheeks, and I have never seen anything or anyone to match his perfection – and then I have him in hand, myself also, and if I thought what we were doing was good, this – this is better – is perfect – is – ah Eru, Manwe, Christ, fuck.

Sweet Yavanna, Aphrodite and Lady Mary, but he is so – so – wonderful, so – beyond any I ever saw. Holy ladies, that I did that – I made him look like that – made him – bite his lip not to cry out, and swallow, and – oh but he is – he is perfection made real. 

Only he looks – as though he might – weep once more. Hurt. 

Lost.

Almost – frightened.

And I – I find perhaps I have more in common with that backwoods Silvan than I thought as I want to hold, to lean down and into, to – kiss.

But he – he pushes me away, and sits, and I – I am sprawled on my back among the pine-needles, panting, feeling sick – sick to my stomach that he is going to denounce me, reject me, and sick – sick with longing, with desire, with need – not just for what we have done but – for something more – something for which I do not know the proper word.

I look up at the sky, what I can see of it between the trees, and I think – how blue – almost as blue as his eyes, and I know that forever now, blue will mean his eyes, and this moment, and feeling sick, and – and hurting.

Forever now blue will mean the heat, and the unaccustomed wine, and taking a chance, just once, once in my life stepping outside of what is expected, what is correct – and making the most horrible mistake.

“I am sorry,” he says, “oh Kitten – Erestor – I didn’t mean – not like that, not like this, not here. Can we – please – put this all aside until later? Until work is done, and then – then take thought on – on what this might mean?”

What can I say?

What is there I could possibly say but to accept his most – gentlemanly – offer to ignore my – my immoral behaviour? My taking advantage of his weakness?

Even as we clean ourselves up, I cannot look at him and he cannot meet my eyes, almost flinches from my touch.

Which is unfortunate, the bike being as it is our only transport, and we being forced to move on the next day.

I find I can sit further back, I can hold the bike itself.

I need not lean on him, hold him, need not feel his warmth against me, his hair in my face.

Sadly.

And so we journey on.

Perhaps the most mismatched pair ever to ride this road, or any other.

 

 

 

My delight in the sunshine has faded, my momentary daring gone.

For days we barely speak beyond what courtesy and the road demands.

I dread the nights, dread the enforced intimacy of sharing a room, and it seems he does also, for he suggests we begin to hurry, to rest for less time, and in pushing on we have less time to notice the silence, the constraint between us.

Until the weather, which I had thought a constant, changes.

We wake one morning, and it is raining – more than raining – thundering, lightening, torrents of water running down the hillside, the road – no longer passable.

“Fuck,” he says, looking out, and for a moment I wish it to be a suggestion, but, “fuck, fuck, fuck. No way can we move on today, Erestor. May as well resign yourself,” he looks up, leans out and – and sniffs the air, “should be clear by tomorrow, I’d say – maybe even late tonight – but no earlier.”

I sigh, and suppose I may as well sleep.

But he – he stays staring out into the rain a while, and then tramps off – to speak to the landlord I suppose.

I burrow down under the blankets, and try to sleep.

Try not to remember him undone, needy and beautiful.

 

 

 

“Oh Erestor,” he is speaking as I wake, speaking softly, in a voice I have not heard him use before, thinking me still asleep, he leans against the window, enjoying the fresh air, but staring at me, and I – I do not move, I listen only, letting him talk, letting him think I sleep on.

“Erestor, oh Erestor, Kitten – I don’t know how to make this right. I don’t know what happened. I thought – thought when you kissed me, touched me – I thought that was love. But then I lost my nerve, I wanted – wanted to wait, to find somewhere more – proper – better than that shrine – to love – and now you – you are gone cold and distant once more.

I never thought I would feel this again – more – more than I knew could be felt.

After Crimea – after those endless nights of misery, of wishing, and then – the agonising realisation – the understanding that my life for so long had been but a delusion – I never thought I could hope to feel this passion.

Crimea.

And I cannot even find the words to speak to you of it.

Oh Erestor.

I tried – I started to try to tell you of Ecthelion. My friend.

I think you understood, you knew how it is possible to feel, to long, to imagine every touch, every glance imbued with meaning.

How it is possible to live on hope, even when cold sense says there is none.

I thought – I thought that was past, that was done.

I thought – I had had my chance, my one shot, as elves are supposed to have – and I thought I had failed.

Then I met you.

And – for all your strangeness, your complaints, your reserve – these last few weeks – since we left the world you know behind – since the sun came out – you have stolen my senses.

Oh Kitten.

I thought – we understood each other – that day. Only if – if you could act so easily, suddenly, without need for words – when the one thing I know of you is your love of words and precautions, and clearness – then perhaps it was nothing to you. Perhaps you are not as I, perhaps the lines are drawn differently in your mind.

But now – I am afraid to ask, afraid even walk to you, to speak, to wake you.”

He sighs again, and turns to look out of the window.

 

 

 

Oh.

Well.

This is silly, I think.

He wants, I want. Somewhere like this – I do not think there is any reason to be concerned for gossip, or any such.

Actually, the thought occurs to me – my hair is long, beside his warrior’s frame I appear small and slight, and elves are – known to be androgynous in appearance. 

No need to be concerned at all.

However, that is all for another day.

Or later.

Now – now I slip from my bed, and I walk over to him, where he stands leaning out into the weather, loving it.

I put my arms about him, I pull him close, and I whisper in his ear, his beautiful, perfect ear,

“So. In England I was too cold. A few days ago – I was too hot. What need I do to be just right, Goldilocks?”

And he – he starts with surprise, and then turns in my arms, his face mortified that I heard all that, and yet – deliciously hopeful.

I can see he is about to start talking again.

And I am not in the mood for that.

So I stretch up – just a little – and stop his mouth with mine.

We do not leave the room that day.

Or the next.

But it is long before I hear the story of the Crimea.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&

 

Remembering, even now, even knowing the bitter end of it all, I cannot but smile for those weeks of joy.

For nights of loving – it was loving – as deep a love as I am capable of, as true a love as he could feel – nights of loving, of exploring, of discovering joys neither of us before knew.

Days also, when we could.

Travelling together, cocooned somehow from the world, from reality, thinking only of each other, of our private language of jokes and touches, of pet-names and foolishness. Of work that must be done, and done well, to justify our stay.

A bridge destroyed. 

Yes, that is true. Even if you forget now just how we knew that was the train to take out, and what risks I ran to get that information.

You choose not to tell how it was that our hair was unbound, easy to make fuse-wire, how that was no scandal to us – though I wonder to myself what Thranduil thinks, even as I know that to his son, child of another time, it means nothing, even as the sight of your hair, loose and glorious daylong, means nothing. To me – to me it is another sting, another cut that it is no longer a joyous secret, a loving unveiling, a private glory – it is just part of who you are, on display for any.

And you do not even notice me, discreetly braided as I am.

You choose also to forget the innocents on that train. Doubtless there would have been some, but no matter – not one, not ten, though perhaps ten thousand would have changed my mind, convinced me it was not the right thing to do.

The end justifies the means, you say now; it was an army train, those on it knew what they were risking; not, as you said then, give the order, and I will follow it. Handing the blame to me – as so often you were to do.

Still. I did not begrudge it, as I would not then have begrudged you anything, not one drop of my heart’s blood, not one iota of all my pride, had you asked it.

A treaty made, negotiated, and no, it did not last, it could not, but it brought some brief respite which seemed good at the time, it gave a breathing space, and then – then when the fighting began once more there was more to do. And, I will admit in my own mind, to this empty room, I was not sorry that we need not leave.

Did I, even then, suspect this was but an interlude? 

No. I trusted words that were spoken, whispered between us. I believed in all the promises and longings of my heart and his. For once in my life, I took no thought of consequences, of reality, of practical considerations – and I was happy.

Even when that second war, that bitter revenge was over – even when we had no real reason to stay – stay we did.

We went south, I forget on what pretence. Maybe there was no pretence, simply a need to be together, to travel on, to hold each other and pretend that there would be no end to it all.

I – I can say it to this bottle, to the empty night – I was besotted with him. Golden, beautiful, strong and tall – a warrior, a hero – how could I not be? I would lie beside him and simply gaze at him for hours, wondering what I had done to be blessed so – and, it seemed, that he would look back at me, as content as I. There was no hint of boredom, of longing for more adventure, more action, in his eyes.

Or if there was, I was blind to it.

We – lazed. That is the only word for it. He would swim, and I would watch, he would set traps and catch fish, build a fire and cook, while I – I simply lay and watched, and waited until after we had eaten, after the wine had been drunk, he would turn to me and stretch out his hand, and I – I would roll, shameless as Thranduilion, flaunting myself for his delight. And the nights of passion would begin again.

I daresay one like Thranduilion would laugh at our unskilled loving, at our surprise at each discovery of something new, something wonderful, of taste and pleasure, of touch and delight. At our doubtless unimaginative and clumsy fumblings. But we knew nothing else – simply to be together, to be able to whisper words we had never truly hoped to say – to kiss, to explore, to feel another’s hand in place of my own – that might almost have been enough. Had there not been that yearning – and I know not if all feel this – that yearning to – to join somehow – to – in my own mind it seemed to me – that if marriage were as elven tradition says, the union of bodies and the calling of the Valar to witness – then I wanted, needed that union with him.

And inexperienced I was – we both were – but we were not fools. We knew – something – of how it could be managed – and we had the time, the inclination to – experiment.

That first time – I remember the burning sting of it, and yet beyond the strangeness, the discomfort – I will not call it pain – was a pleasure in knowing our bodies as close as I believed our hearts, our fea to be. I remember his movement within me, and almost as a word can be beyond reach of tongue and yet known, a feeling that – yes, this was right, more than right, this was – so close to a perfection, a joy, a burst of ecstasy I could not quite reach. And then I felt him clutch at me, and heard his breath change, and he was still for a long moment, and – and I knew I had done this, knew him to be mine, even as I was his, even as he leant his face against mine, and shuddered and kissed me and whispered,

“Oh my Kitten, my sweet, sweet Kitten,” and reached down to touch me, and then, “I am sorry. I – I could not stop – maybe another time I will be able to be slower – but, Kitten – so wonderful, so – bloody good. I – what would you have now, my sweet, I want to – to make you happy also?”

“Just hold me,” I remember that was all I wanted, all I seemed to need, “hold me close, and – and yes, like that – do not – move away, do not stop,” and in those days it would not have seemed to me shaming to add, “please, I need you, I love you, tell me you love me also, tell me this is forever.”

But I did not say it, did not think it needed saying.

As I say, I am confident Thranduilion, child of another time, would laugh. No doubt he would not have felt as I did, content – almost – only to give pleasure, to wait until after for my own. No doubt he is one to demand satisfaction, to insist his partner see to his needs – but I – I was simply joyous to see my beloved in such ecstasy, and I knew, or thought I knew, we had all the time of elves to become skilled. 

Not, I should add for the sake of fairness, that it took us long.

 

 

 

But time does not stop, even for elves in love – or whatever I should call it.

And our work being done, it was only ever a matter of time before we found ourselves caught up with by officialdom.

Gildor Inglorion, it was, who we ran into in the end.

In the Plaka, some taverna or other, I forget the name, though I can see it now, can feel my regret and hopeless anger with myself for choosing this one of all of them. My annoyance with his insistence that we even come back to Athens, to see the Parthenon – just because it is famous doesn't make it worth more than every other temple – only he thought it did. I suppose I should have known then that we were too different to last – only I had not the wit to see past my infatuation.

“Just the elves I’ve been hoping to see,” Gildor bloody Inglorion called out to us, and with a sinking feeling our eyes met, and we shared a long moment before we turned, and walked to him, and sat down, and listened, as he told me I was needed in London, and for Glorfindel – for Glorfindel he had sealed orders, “think they want you to go on to Egypt, or somesuch. There’s some fellow over that way – another bike fanatic – Lawrence – someone thinks you would match up well together, if the balloon goes up in that part of the world, the way they think it will,” and he turned back to me, “so – fortunate I caught you, Erestor, there’s a boat – sails on the midnight tide. That’ll be your best bet. Assume you travelled pretty light,” he clicked his fingers and, “where are you staying, I’ll send my subaltern off to get your bags.”

For a moment, I remember, I was so frozen with horror, with shock, that it was over, finished, like that, that I did not remember why his subaltern – whoever he was – must not go to our lodgings, get my bags. See my things mixed in glorious disarray with those of Glorfindel, see the bed as we had left it, stained and rumpled, and know. 

Fortunately, for once in his life, Glorfindel was awake to the possibility of exposure, and was into a story of how it would take more time to explain where we were than to go ourselves, that we had eaten and were not hungry, that we would go, and be back in good time to meet Gildor bloody Inglorion, collect his orders, and see me onto the ship.

To this day, I do not know what Gildor bloody Inglorion made of his use of the first person plural throughout all that. Or of my silence.

Annoying as Gildor is, he has been discreet all these years. 

Or possibly he really is that stupid.

I remember going back to the lodgings, wordless still, and trying to pack, and then – just sitting.

Both of us sitting on the side of the bed, the bed where only hours before we had been entwined as though nothing could part us, as though love was real, was eternal, sitting there and simply holding hands.

No words.

No words left.

Just his thumb rubbing endlessly over and over the back of my hand as he held me and I clutched at him.

Silence.

Eventually,

“I should pack,” I said, and then, “I, Goldilocks, I –“

Running out of words.

I wonder sometimes, in the depths of the night, if anything would have been different if I had found words at that moment. If I had said – I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to be apart from you. I love you. Take me with you. Come with me.

Are we not joined in love before the Valar?

But I didn’t.

And he – he looked down, at where our hands were joined, and then, 

“No. But you have to. This – this was never going to be – we cannot live in Greece, touring endlessly,” and then a final pat, and he rose, “come on. Let’s be getting your things together. It’s not the end of the world, Kitten. I’ll be in London soon enough.”

“Yes. Not the end of the world,” I repeated, and followed his lead.

And it wasn’t.

But it was the end of the best of my life.

Silence as we began to move, to separate ours into mine and yours.

Walking down the stairs, getting on the bike one last time.

Holding him close, as though I would not let him go, burying my face in his hair and trying to store up the scent of it, the feel of him, the rightness of it all.

Riding across town, and out to Piraeus, to the docks. Understanding he must feel differently, because I – I could only see a blur of lights through the tears that I must not let fall, must blink away. I could not have driven safely so far or so fast.

Getting off the bike, seeing Gildor bloody Inglorion there, waiting, gesturing to a boat.

Ship.

As though I cared.

Standing and looking at Glorfindel, not knowing what to say, how to say any of it.

He looking back.

Both of us silenced by the presence of others, by a moment we had – surely – known was coming, but had chosen to ignore.

Then.

“I will be in London. Even if – if not for a while. Depends on what’s happening – but I know where to look for you. I won’t say I’ll write – because I probably can’t. But – we will run into each other again, one of these days.”

“I know,” I said, because I believed it, and then, “take care of yourself, Goldilocks. No idiot stunts.”

And he grinned, and slapped my arm, unable to do more,

“No idiot stunts. And, Kitten, best to ease off on the wine back home.”

I nodded.

And turned away.

 

 

I looked back from the deck – but he and Gildor were gone already.

It was a long way home – and it didn’t feel like going home – it felt as though I were being torn apart.

I remember being glad I had some cigarettes with me. Vile things, Greek cigarettes.

Vile drink, Greek brandy.

But I never lost the taste for either.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Dawn is showing, faintly, beyond the trees, as I reach the end of my thoughts, of the story of my glory days; and there is nothing left in the bottle.

I lean out of the window, Elrond being somewhat fanatical about smoke in the House, as I finish my last cigarette.

As though conjured by my thoughts, I see Glorfindel prowling through the grounds. For a moment, I want to call out, to go to him, for a moment I forget all the time between then and now, all the arguments, the lies, the times he made it clear I would never be enough, all the ache and pain, I only know he is there, and beautiful, and I love him – and once, once he loved me also.

Then I see he is with Thranduil, and I hear their words,

“Legolas rides, I take it? He is your son, after all – I thought we’d go off later, explore up towards the Downs – unless that's where you’re going? Don’t want to interfere with memories.”

Thranduil shrugs,

“I believe you will find there is a tennis tournament organised first. Those who are known to be athletically inclined will doubtless be forced to participate. Sadly for you, Legolas is rather good at such pointless bat and ball games; you will have to wait until he has had his chance to show off. Believe me, if he can score over the twins, he will be much more – enthusiastic – about anything you have in mind,” and absently, I wonder why Thranduil is so keen to see his son one of Glorfindel’s many trophies, what Legolas can possibly be up to that would make this seem preferable, “I shall indeed ride out towards the woods. I have my memories, if little else,” he pauses a moment, and then, and I have never seen Thranduil look so vulnerable, “don’t hurt him, Glorfindel. He is still very young, though he wouldn’t thank me for saying it.”

He turns and stalks away towards the stables before Glorfindel can answer.

I watch, sick with jealousy, with longing, with need and pain and desire, as Goldilocks, my Goldilocks, my beloved, my lover, my only – who is now none of these things – stares after him a moment, and then stretches, beautiful and perfect as ever.

He turns then, as I must somehow have known he would, to go indoors, and for a moment our eyes meet.

His are cold, blue as the sea and sky, and I remember how blue once seemed the colour of warmth and heat – and how for many years it has been the colour of pain and rejection.

I don’t know what he sees in mine. Longing, I suppose, exhaustion and regret, loneliness and a wish to change the way our lives have become sundered. But he cares not.

A formal half-nod of acknowledgement, and he is gone, striding to a door I cannot see, a lover that is not I, and a future in which I have no part.

I draw deep on the last of my cigarette, and flick the end out in a perfect arc towards the ground where it may join all the others, a sign clear to read for any who will that Erestor has not slept this night, that Erestor is sick with love. That Erestor waits at his window, waits and waits for his beloved to call – and it is to no avail, for my Goldilocks has long since decided I was too cold, my Rapunzel has let down his hair and danced away, leaving me alone, while he dallies even now with this warm and pretty Thranduilion.

A sign then, that, when all is said and done, Erestor is as much a fool as any other.

But there is none who cares to read it, and I daresay it will be tidied away by one of Elrond’s gardeners soon enough.

Then I too turn from the memories, from the perfection of the grounds, and take thought for what the day will hold.


End file.
